


Demon Children

by Otaku553



Category: Gintama, Rurouni Kenshin
Genre: Alternate Universe, At the start at least, But not right now, Crossover, Family, Gen, Gintoki gets a diff name, Give smol Gintoki som love, Hope you like, No Amanto, Not Beta Read, Stuff will become more like canon later, also, au i guess, probably, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-07-20 22:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16147151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otaku553/pseuds/Otaku553
Summary: One had the white hair of a ghost and the red eyes of blood. One had hair of flame and eyes of violet. They met one night, the demon children that only wished for a friend and the warmth and love of a family.AKA Shinta meets the corpse-eating demon when they're young and the smol demon (Inai, for he has no name) is adopted by the Himura family. Himura Ayako and Isaburo couldn't just leave the silver-haired child out there alone. They already had one called a demon-child, what was one more?





	1. Their meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so as far as I know Hiko only gave Shinta the name of Kenshin, so the surname Himura could be originally his own. I just kind of thought, it's odd that nobody has done a crossover of these two, since the characters have such similar timeline. And not much has been done on Kenshin's childhood as Shinta! I wanted to do something with the Himura family. They just probably won't have much character since they die soon anyways. Sorry.  
> Also, not Beta'd. Sorry.

The wind blew past, the copper-smelling air shifting around it. On a battlefield, a silver-haired, bloody-eyed child sighed, dejected. Not as if any wind would help make the overbearing smell of blood go away, but couldn’t a child wish?

And for that matter, couldn’t that child wish, perhaps, for a home? Merely a roof over his head and at least one meal a day?

Of course he could. But it would never change his reality: sleeping on beds of corpses, eating pilfered and bloodied rice balls, using musty abandoned camps for shelter. The few that did come near him could be easily dealt with, and although their clothes were bloody, the demon-child (He supposed that was his name, that’s what everyone else called him) could maybe have one more layer to protect him from the frigid cold of the coming season.

Recently, he’d found a nice alleyway in a small village. The pathways were of dirt, and the tiny wooden houses looked little more than shacks, but he was able to find refuge between two, where the roofs extended far enough that he could be mostly sheltered from the rain.

He dared not climb atop the stones between the houses and peek through the wooden-barred windows, for he knew he would see what he wanted --  his heart’s deepest desire, in fact -- but would never receive. Every time he had, he just got a terrible feeling in his gut, that he really couldn’t describe. Watching children play with their tops and their parents, smelling the fragrance that came with freshly cooked rice and fried fish…

Ah how he wished. But only wished. For he would never receive.

He dared not… he wished not… ah, dang it! He really wanted to at least calm him grumbling stomach a bit with the smell. So he took a minuscule peek.

It was a family of three. Typical. The parents looked nondescript, like any other man or woman the demon-child had seen walking by him with a look on their face that was a cross between fear and disgust. But they were smiling. It made him want to smile too, but no matter how he tried, he didn’t know how.

But then he saw it.

The flaming red hair and violet eyes. How the other child, pale and fair and bruised, shuddered a bit on the tatami mat, and how at his silent tears and choked out sob, his mother rushed to his side and embraced him.

“You’re not a demon,” she whispered, patting the boy’s head with the gentle touch of a butterfly. “It doesn’t matter what they say. You’re only you.”

The boy stopped shaking, and nodded.

And the demon-child felt churning in his stomach.

He shouldn’t have wanted it so bad, should’ve already cast off any desire or longing for such a thing -- Parents? Bah! For as long as he knew, he had nobody. Nobody approached him. Nobody spoke to him. Nobody comforted him even after he was chased off from villages, running from the fires and pitchforks and stones that felt like knives on his dirty skin everywhere they hit. But it should’ve been him there, him who had been comforted,  hugged,  _ loved _ . But he could only imagine.

So he did.

He imagined warmth -- what he knew of it, anyways -- radiating from baggy sleeves of soft kimono, wrapping themselves around him. He imagine the butterfly touch on his tousled hair, the comforting words whispered to him in the same manner, the same gentle tone… And he felt something warm roll down his face and hoped it wasn’t coppery blood like he’d felt so many times.

He must’ve sobbed or made some kind of sound, because the next moment, two adults were suddenly aware, staring at the window, heads turned and eyes sharp.

The demon-child ducked. He couldn’t lose his hiding space, the rain was about to come, please not his hiding space,  _ please not his hiding space-- _

“Would you like to come in?” came the low, comforting, baritone voice of the probably-father.

“N-no…” the demon child managed to croak out, hugging himself and making himself as small as he possibly could. Oh no. Oh no nonono, they were coming out, they’d see him there, they’d see him there  _ and they’d see his silver hair and red eyes of a demon and then they’d chase him out and he’d have nowhere for the next 2 weeks and-- _

He didn’t look up. Not to see the look of fear and disgust on another person’s face again. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t…

And yet, when he did, he found a child staring at him, not the cold eyes of a man.

It was that fair-skinned, flaming-haired child. His violet eyes looked down, calculating, but holding no malice.

“Come in,” the child offered a gentle smile, holding out his bruised hand.

The demon-child hesitantly nodded, and stood up himself. He was only slightly taller than the child, who, now that he looked closer, he really couldn’t tell was a boy or a girl. The child gave such an innocent grin,  _ how was he able to grin so innocently at a revolting demon child _ , and took the demon-child’s dirtied hands in his own soft, pale, bruised ones. “My name’s Shinta,” he said, quietly. “What’s yours?”

The demon-child looked down. “Don’t have one…” he mumbled.

The child in front of him was too bright. Too kind. Dragging him slightly, the red-haired child led him inside the cozy wooden hut, where the parents,  _ the parents that the demon-child knew would look at him in contempt and disgust and fear as everyone else did _ … smiled? In apprehensive, it seemed, but genuine kindness.

“Who is this, Shinta?” they inquired.

“Inai*. That’s what he said!” Shinta chirped enthusiastically.

The parents seemed to exchange concerned glaces. Inai… Didn’t have. That was probably what the child before them had said in response to being asked what his name was.

Yet, they knew that this poor child needed immediate comforts. So they set to work to prepare another futon, another dinner, and for the first time, the demon-child knew warmth. What it felt like to have a nice fire to light the night, to have warm meal and to be clean and have a change of clothes.

“See…” Shinta mumbled, close to the child. “Inai-san, you seem to be a… foreigner… too, right?”

The demon child nodded slightly. The word  _ demon  _ went unsaid, but they both knew it. Then, the red-haired child turned to him with the biggest, brightest grin. It was blinding. “Then that means I’m not alone and you aren’t either!”

 

* * *

After more or less a week with the Himura family, despite its sad origin, the name Inai had stuck. The silver-haired child, who was covered in dirt and blood when he had come, was now clean, tidied except for his natural bird’s nest hair, and even sometimes seemed to have a ghost of a smile on his face. He never once let go of the old katana though, even in his shallow-breathed sleep and somehow brown baths. The parents, Ayako and Isaburo weren’t worried. Not once had the child moved to unsheathe it, and it seemed to provide a sense of security, if anything.

They had taken in the child, called him their own, given him the name of Himura Inai. He hadn’t complained, though he spoke minimally. Inai always seemed to have a fond gaze for their own boy, Shinta though.

Now that there were two, villagers didn’t dare come close to their house. Children steered clear. But, well, Ayako suspected that was for the best, since she knew for a fact that the purple bruises on her baby’s perfect fair skin had not been because the child “tripped” as he had said.

Shinta was still 6, and though Inai didn’t know his own age, Ayako was fairly certain he was 8 or so. Looking past his gaunt visage that told of severe malnutrition, the child had a beautiful face, with long white lashes to match his hair, and chilling blood-red eyes. It was a bit scary to look at at first, but they got used to it, and how when they landed on food they seemed to instantly brighten just slightly.

Shinta was always overjoyed, now that he had a playmate, even a brother. He’d taken to calling the new boy “Inai-nii,” which melted a corner right of Ayako’s already fragile heart (from watching the reserved movements of the child, knowing he’d come from a worse place).

The one time they’d truly been fearful of the child was the one time an older child tried to approach the house again. Isaburo was out in the fields, reaping the rice grown for the winter reserves. She herself had been home, mending some clothes. The coming winter was going to be cold, they had been told.

So the child came. And picked up a stone. And threw it at the flaming-haired child, while the child was entranced by his wooden spinning top.

And it was too quick, Ayako didn’t have the time to shout out to her baby, warn him, tell him to move before the stone caused a concussion or worse  _ kil _ -

_ Clack _ . The stone was on the floor.

Silver hair ruffled in the wind, red eyes cold, those of a predator. The perpetrator, a pudgy preteen, narrowed his eyes, but Ayako could see the minuscule shudder of the pudgy boy, the way his fingers twitched and his feet lifted in anticipation.

A growl. Inai’s eyes narrowed. The preteen shook his head, as if dismissing any notion that the child in front of him could do him any harm. He charged forward, a fool.

And in a flash of shiny polish black of a katana sheath, a hearty  _ thunk  _ came, and the preteen was down, drool dribbling down the side of his face.

Oh, thank the gods for Inai. Thank you, thank you thank you! Ayako couldn’t thank them enough for the guardian they had sent. Despite the fear and chill down her spine when the child had appeared with his rueful red eyes, she was grateful. So grateful.

 

“Inai-nii,” Shinta said, without turning from his top. 

The silver haired boy turned his head.

“Thanks.”

The silver-head nodded, and for the first time, a true smile showed on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Gintoki's name for now, Inai, is the Romaji for いない, which if my research is correct, should mean "doesn't have" or "doesn't exist," which is Gintoki's reply for when Shinta asks him for his name.  
> So if you noticed by their ages, stuff goes sour real soon, which is when they'll be getting their true names. Still not too sure how to do it though, since I'm an amateur.  
> Please leave Kudos or review! I'm really new at this though, so please be kind for the sake of my fragile heart


	2. Their loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cholera epidemic.

The two children were nearly inseparable.

Every 5 seconds or less, Isaburo heard either a child’s gentle laughter, a telltale “Inai-nii!” or even, on occasion, a rarely heard voice saying “Shinta,” fondly. To actually see his son, smiling and interacting with a boy close in age to himself was quite a marvel.

In fact, Shinta himself was a marvel.

Nobody in his family knew how a normally nondescript Japanese couple with average black hair and yellowish skin had bore a child of blood hair and violet eyes. As soon as they’d heard, though, the man and woman were promptly cast out of their families, left to support themselves and their growing baby boy.

It didn’t help either that the villagers shared the sentiment. They’d had a hell of a time trying to find a job and settle down, and even when they did,  _ in fact, whenever they did _ , nobody would leave their boy alone.

Not like it was ever dear Shinta’s fault, though. The boy was simply too demure, too passive, maybe even too feminine. The boys wouldn’t stay away, knowing they would never be harmed or attacked by the child, who was always so engrossed in his wooden top.

It was exactly why Inai had been such a godsend.

Isaburo didn’t know the details, but the boy was strong, probably from having defended himself many times. They were curious about what they boy had gone through, but quickly dismissed it after Inai’s first bath, where the water soaked brownish red, and the child winced at the slightest touch. Yes, the boy was strong.

But no matter how strong he was, he was just a boy, and Isaburo found himself waking up some nights to nearly silent sobbing. In the moonlight, he’d seen the child unconsciously twist, his body contorting and his small, calloused hands grabbing for his futon. Sometimes, instead of the white, tear-stained eyelashes, he’d bloodshot crimson eyes that reached with inhuman speed for the worn katana by his futon.

And then, another gesture that melted his heart again: Inai got up and pushed his futon just slightly closer to that of the red-haired child, and snuggled back into the futon, seemingly calmed, but still hugging his katana for dear life. 

Isaburo didn’t know what the boy had come from or experienced, but he wouldn’t let anything more happen to the boy now. Inai was their son. Himura Inai. No longer a demon, just like their own Shinta. In fact, never a demon. Not before, and not ever after.

\---

It was unclear when the start was. Perhaps it was the consistent thirst that Ayako complained about, or the cramps Isaburo thought were merely cricks from a hard day’s work in the rice fields.

Then, it got worse.

Diarrhea became normal. The couple was restless. Vomit wasn’t uncommon. And Inai and Shinta constantly had furrowed brows, carrying in their hands a cup of water at the ready for any request from their parents.

Ayako breathed in and out shallowly, reaching a shaking hand up at her beloved husband and sons. But they were out, gathering blankets, searching for materials. In the end, her hand fell limply by her side, as the visions faded and her weary eyes lidded. There wasn’t any romantic or heartbreaking scene about this, only vast emptiness. A lone tear rolled down her pale, dry, wrinkly cheek as the world faded from her. She could only hope that she could watch over her husband, watch over her sons, make sure they live long and happy.

 

Isaburo and the children returned from the forest with straw-weaved bowls tucked under their arms, which were promptly dropped.

Isaburo’s first choked sob cut through the tense silence like a knife. Then came the inevitable flood. Isaburo fell to his knees, screaming as Shinta ran to Ayako’s bedside, tears gushing out of his eyes. He held up his mother’s cold, limp hand, begging for her to awaken, begging for her to smile at him, sit up, declare herself healthy again, and pat him on his head with that gentle butterfly touch of hers, and whisper tiny reassurances in his ears that he was no demon, he was a boy.

Inai stood there, processing. He had no time to cry like the two. To begin with, he spent only a meager two months with the family, feeling mostly like he was intruding. It wasn’t in his place to cry passionately. Yet, he couldn’t cast from his mind the way that Ayako had sleepily patted his shaking figure when his mind showed him images of a bloody battlefield he longed to forget. He could throw away the nagging kindness or the clean clothes or the warm futon or the regular showers and dressings for his wounds.

He had been shown more love, more warmth in the past month than he ever had in his whole life. He had been cared for, tended to. He had been reassured, and two months of kind words should’ve done nothing against his 8, almost 9 years of having been chased away from villages, having to face katanas and pitchforks and torches. Yet, it did.

He found that the tears came far too easily. But tears weren’t food. They wouldn’t help with survival. With shaking legs, he stepped over to the closet and pulled out two blankets. One he wrapped carefully around the blood-haired boy, and the other, he did the same for Isaburo.

Then, he sat. His katana leaned against his shoulder, as the floor became wet with puddles of tears building underneath the shadowed, lowered faces.

 

Ayako had been the first to go. The villagers altogether weren’t too concerned. The family with its demons for children had been pretty secluded anyways. Served them right! It had to be divine retribution for upbringing not just one demon, but two.

The villagers were sorely mistaken. The next to go was the kind old lady, Hanako. Then the fisherman, Ikeda. The people dropped dead one after another, somberly lifted onto a bamboo mat and buried in the nearby field. It was more upturned grass and sad gravestones by now, than it was the lush green grass it used to be. The epidemic swept through unforgivingly. Children weren’t spared, nor were adults or the elderly.

Somewhere along the line, Isaburo had joined his wife Ayako, even. Endowed with the task of both his and his younger brother’s survival, Inai had spent his time going out and finding food. Shinta stayed at home, trying to keep things as sanitary as he could.

The village got quieter and quieter, until it was silent, save for the chirping of cicadas that had started to appear by the time summer came around. Their lives were empty, meaningless. They sat around the whole day, having no purpose. Inai hated it. It reminded him of the battlefield. Sometimes, he felt like in the deafening silence, the smell of blood was back, the limp corpses with rusty and abandoned katanas sticking out of them lying haphazardly on a field devoid of life.

When he opened his eyes though, there he found his purpose in the form of a shuddering redheaded child with the softest violet eyes. He heard the wooden spinning top on the uneven surface of the hut’s ground, and the soft chirping of birds.

Summer had come, ending the epidemic. It had come, marking the end of the small village. Marking the month since their father had died and 4 since their mother had.

 

In this desolate place robbed of its inhabitants and covered with the telltale gravestones of death, there should’ve been no way two boys could survive. And yet they did. Supporting each other, the two boys once called demons (but no longer for there was nobody to call them that anymore)  lived. 

Inai perused the rice field. Maybe he could use it to plant something. The cool, murky water made his hot skin tingle pleasantly, the mud underneath finding its ways between his toes and tickling his feet.

From behind him, a startled voice exclaimed, “Oororororo!!” as a splash of muddy water soiled Inai’s already dirty and ragged gi,

Shinta sat in the mud behind him, blushing.

“Shinta, what was that?” Inai asked, trying but failing at stifling the amused snicker the boy would no doubt take offensively.

Shinta sheepishly stood, looking down in embarrassment. “Um. A reaction, I guess. I dunno.”

Inai couldn’t help himself. It started with giggling, then wholehearted chuckles, and soon he was rolling around in the mud himself, watching his little brother turn redder and redder, face getting considerably close in color to hair.

Shinta smiled. Inai was laughing. Inai never laughed. He’d have to make a point to do that more often around him, he thought fondly, smiling in fond exasperation at his older brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Leave a review or kudos if you liked it, please!


	3. Their Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slave traders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! 3k words or so this time, hope you enjoy!  
> Hahaha I really should have done my homework. Oh well. This was fun to write.

Two months into the summer, cicadas screeched, as Inai tramped through the forest, eyes wary. _ There. _ Those plants  _ had _ to be edible. He’d eaten them before and been fine… but would it be okay for Shinta? The other boy seemed quite frail, without having the necessity to defend himself in these times of war. Inai didn’t want to risk it. He’d found his happiness, in the form of a three-person family, yet it had to be taken from him again. He wouldn’t let whatever unfair fate he had take away the only saving grace of the world from him.

The world was dirty. He could personally attest to this fact, having experienced the ugly side of the world himself. Greed and conformity… That was what had condemned him to this life. The greed of the oppressed for better times and the greed of the reigning for more to rule over. The conformity that always made people stay away from him, and the conformity that he’d never be able to achieve with his blood-red eyes and ghostly silver hair.

And yet, in this filthy world, was a small, tiny dot of pure, clean white.

Shinta.

He wouldn’t let anyone touch him.

There. The edible plants had been gathered. When he got back, hopefully Shinta better have had better luck than him fishing. There wasn’t even a rabbit in sight today. Thank goodness Isaburo had gathered enough rice to last them for a while, though it was dwindling. Soon, he would also have to learn some farming, he supposed.

“I’m home,” Inai exclaimed, as he walked into the small home with a bored look on his face.

“Welcome back, Inai-nii!” came Shinta’s voice from the back, head over the small basin where the two’s muddy clothes were, eyebrows furrowed in determination.

It was a quiet life they were living, just getting by every day. The village was desolate, but it seemed the risk for… what had the local doctor called it? Cholera? Was gone. Of course, the village doctor had died, too, so it wasn’t like they could ask him again. If there were any survivors, they had fled from the village, effectively making it seem like a ghost town.

In all honesty, the two had no idea what to do with their lives, now. Of course, they had dreams. But those had been the idle wandering of their minds in the safety of their homes, when they’d had the luxury to imagine it.

Shinta had wanted to maybe explore the lands. He’d heard that with the recent foreigners coming to the country, the capital even had some Western elements to it now.

Inai… well, he didn’t think he’d ever have a family again, so he merely savored every day he could. Travelling across Japan with Shinta might be fun…

Shinta chuckled at the thought of walking through forests, camping next to a blazing fire. Though he had hoped that maybe his parents, or even Inai would be with him, he was sure his parents were smiling now, alongside each other. Plus, Inai-nii was still here.

Shinta had worked hard to pick up where his dear brother was lacking. He learned to do the laundry, because Inai was as useful as house chores as a lazy old man… It was slightly exasperating, to be honest. Also, Shinta had learned how to cook, as best he could. Well, it was a process of trial and error, he supposed. Sometimes the rice turned out hard, or too soggy. When he did find the perfect combination of rice and water and heat, he ingrained it in his mind, so he could do it again and again, without fail.

Inai’s eyes had lit up with joy when he bit into the fresh, moist, sticky rice. “Mmmm! So good!” He nearly squealed, the first time Shinta had done it well. Shinta was so happy. The reaction still hadn’t faded, even after several weeks of eating the same thing. Of course, it wasn’t like Shinta knew what his older brother was eating before this, but he was determined to keep that smile on his face!

With full bellies after dinner, Shinta and Inai climbed into their respective futons next to each other, Shinta dozing off immediately, while Inai took some time to process his thoughts.

_ As we go, I’m fine with whatever happens _ . He was pretty content, providing for the two of them, and Shinta was becoming really good at cooking. As long as he could provide the ingredients and Shinta could do the rest, they were living an okay life. Content with his finished pondering, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

_ Creak _ . Was that the floorboard? Must’ve been Shinta getting up to use the potty or something. Inai always had his katana next to him in the event of any danger, anyways. He faded back into his deep slumber, which he thought he’d never be able to get out on the battlefield, but appreciated quite a lot nowadays.

“ _ Hey, there’s two kids here.” the man whispered. “Matches the description. Seems like only the older one fights though.” _

_ They took light steps through the house of rough wooden flooring. A creak. The white-haired kid seemed to stir, before turning and becoming silent again. _

_ “Which one do we take? Red-haired? White-haired? Or just both?” _

_ “Not the white haired. He’ll be too hard to handle. And rumor is he used to wander the battlefields. Take the red-haired. We can at least pass the kid off as a foreigner; the violet passes barely for blue, and would be pretty well-desired. Definitely would net a high price. _

_ “Oh hey, look. A katana.” the man snickered. “Think we can sell it for anything?” _

_ “Nah, but take it anyways. Should be useful.” _

_ With nimble steps, the two men tiptoed to the side of the futon holding the red-haired boy. _

_ One slapped a hand over the boy’s mouth. Amber, rather than his usually kind violet eyes shot open, wide as saucers, as the boy sat up, heart pounding. A scream was muffled by the large, rough hand.The other man quickly grabbed the boy’s hands, shoving them behind his back. The boy squirmed in pace, legs flailing like the tail of a fish out of water. _

_ His breaths were coming quicker. In, out, in, out.  _ No, no, no. This was all wrong. Why had people come to this reserved part of the village where nobody else would? Why? Why? Inai-nii… Inai-nii! _ The large breaths shortened, becoming shallow.  _ No. No! I need to wake up Inai-nii! He’ll know what to do!  _ The heart pounded against his chest. His throat hurt. Sweat beaded his face. His eyes snapped shut, a tear squeezing out the corner.  _ Inai-nii…  _ Inai-nii!! _

_ Then, he couldn’t breathe. His amber eyes shot open again, but this time, it was blurred. This time, black snuck in the corners of his vision, until it covered it all. Finally, the boy went limp. He was breathing, but his eyes had closed. _

_ The men grinned at each other. The cat was in the bag, now. They lifted the boy roughly, and one threw the small boy’s slender form over his shoulder. _

_ Ah, shi--  _ the man dropped his newly obtained katana. The sheath clacked on the floor, as the cry of metal against metal rang out, the katana slipping out of its polished sheath.

Blood-red eyes shot open, with none of the warmth that the child had gained in the past months.

It was a blur. The futon blanket was shoved off, landing feet away from the futon. Heavy quick footsteps against wood, the sound of metal on the wooden floor, and a blur of silver in the sparse moonlight. The boy’s red eyes almost seemed to glow, as he holding his worn sword, he let out a low growl. The red eyes, that were usually soft, bored, dead-looking but lively in its own right, turned downright deadly, sharp and cold.

“Return Shinta.” the ghostly child snarled.

The two men were shaking. Why, they didn’t know, as they were facing a mere child. Maybe it was the hair and pale, smooth skin that made him look like a vengeful spirit. Maybe it was the chillingly red eyes, whose pupils dilated.

This child, they knew, had seen things. No child otherwise would have such a dead, cold look in their eyes.

But they didn’t have the weapons at the moment. Nor did they have the help.

Turning tail, they ran, the blood-haired child’s ponytail haphazardly swishing from the jerking movement.

Inai bit his cheek. How dare they, how dare they, how dare they dirty the only purity in the world, they were worse than the people who didn’t bother them, worse than the people who looked at them in disgust, how dare they take his brother, how dare they take away his only joy when he already had nothing else left,  _ how dare they?! _

_ How dare they take him?! _

He ran after their backs.

* * *

Panting, Inai finally stopped when he came to a sinister looking wooden-fence. The copper smell was back, he noted, leaning against a nearby tree to catch his breath. He closed his red eyes. Rushing in without a plan would no doubt only get him killed. What he needed was a calm mind… a calm mind…

Oh, hell! How could he ever calm his mind?! They had taken his brother! God, this was so difficult!

A scream of pain awoke him from his pondering, his red eyes shooting open once again, both hands on the katana’s handle in a stance of attention. It didn’t seem to be Shinta… rather, a low baritone. He inwardly signed in relief at this, though he couldn’t relax just yet. That came from inside the fence. Who…?

After being on the battlefield for a while, getting past obstacles had become far easier. With a deft leap, he cleared the fence to find the most atrocious thing he’d ever see.

People, fellow humans, dirty and covered in mud, and dressed in rags, barely preserving their dignity. They were lined up, heads tilted down in subservience. The scream had come from a man on the far left, who was kneeling on the ground, covered in bruises, telltale inflamed wounds that hadn’t healed properly, and new, bleeding gashes. The burly man who stood in front of the guy on the ground… no, Inai could tell that was more like above, the man’s tabi was far too close to the other’s head for comfort… had a whip in his hand. 

All heads were turned to the silver-haired child as he looked around. There were similar lines of people and sickeningly large men holding whips. This was… a  _ slave trading place. _ They dared kidnap his brother for  _ slavery _ ? A pit rose in his stomach. He was going to be sick, but not before he cut off the heads of the men who’d taken his brother.

Then, he’d take his brother home, and they’d enjoy their hermit-like life together for longer, but for now…. He had a mission.

Now that the enemy was aware of his presence, the men with whips started to approach him.  _ Shit, _ he inwardly cursed, jumping out of reach as whips swished through the air, crashing where he just was. He ran towards what appeared to be the main building. There were men filing in with their catches, it seemed. The men with whips were hot on his trail, as a loud alarm cry came, alerting the others of the intruder. NO! He had no time for fighting. He needed to reach his brother, and he needed to reach his brother now.

He would not be, could not be idly fighting these small fry men while they stripped his brother of his dignity and took him away from him. He would die before he let that happen.

The men running behind him had abandoned their leather whips in favor of katanas. He gritted his teeth. Fair, he supposed, to arm themselves similarly to their enemy, but with numbers? This was in no way a fair fight.

A whish through the air sounded, as long, sharp metal clashed with his own rusted, dull blade. Inai’s eyes went blank for a moment, as he pushed the back of the blade with his other arm, and with a forceful shove, propelled the man backwards. Then, he give a blood-chilling smile, and licked his lips. The best way to kill quickly on this one… the belly, he deduced shortly, and then struck with the too-long katana in his right hand.

He didn’t have the time to observe his work or frisk the man for useful items, as he turned around, slashing at three more men around him simultaneously.

Red burst forth in a circular motion and splattered the ground with the ever present smell of copper. No time. Inai ran, his katana at his side and ready for more. He slashed in large strokes, flailing through the men that dared to impede him, dared to keep him away from his brother.

He had finally found something to protect after years of only using the sword for his own day-to-day survival. He didn’t care what rumors would start, or what his new nickname after killing all these men would become. Only his brother, he needed his brother.

The building neared, as Inai cut his way through the flimsy wall of a wooden shack. There were mostly women here, with luscious black hair and soft, light skin. More guards stood in alert, at his arrival, while the women cowered into a corner of the shed. Argh, he couldn’t see! Where was Shinta?

_ There!  _ His eyes stopped darting around the room, landing on the small bit of red hair peeking out from underneath three women's arms. Oh, thank goodness, none of them seemed harmed, though Shinta was shaking.

The men were alert, but made no move yet. Inai let them observe him as he walked to face the group of shuddering women. Violet eyes hidden beneath black hair and tear-stained faces met his own red ones, and a nervous voice peered out from beneath the sobs.

“Inai…-nii?”

“Yeah. Shinta, I’m here.”

The boy’s face seemed to brighten, as he repeated Inai’s name. Inai would have loved to hug his brother, tousle his bright red hair, hold him tight and never let him go again. But the men seemed over with observing him, he noticed, as a couple took apprehensive steps forward, their katanas quivering slightly. Thank goodness the blood combined with his natural palette made him look otherworldly.

He pivoted on his back foot in a flash, catching the slash of one of the men behind him, shoving him off and stabbing him in the bowel.

“Cover his eyes,” He mumbled to the women hugging his brother, without turning back.

He didn’t get any affirmation, but he hoped they had listened. Shinta didn’t need to see what was going to happen.

There were, give or take, twenty men in the room. His blood eyes narrowed. These men were plagues on the world, even worse than the every-day average person. They all charged forward at once.

Inai held his katana at his right side, running to the left as quickly as his calloused feet would allow. The men quickly recovered from slashing through air, to chase him around the large shed. He was highly disadvantaged here. He barely knew his surroundings. He turned, stopping his sprint abruptly, and then slashed downwards in a large mation, as he’d seen his enemies do before.

It was caught by the other man’s blade, but he abruptly brought his sword back and slashed in an upward diagonal to the right. He caught the man across the front, blood spewing out and towards him. One down. Many to go. He turned and held his blade up to stop another attack.

Then came the searing pain and the sound of tearing flesh, as he felt a warm liquid drip down the left side of his back.

His left arm went limp. He cursed and slashed in a circular motion with his arm, taking down two. Many to go. He turned and ran a few feet and slashed again.

Vaguely, he knew he was getting cut in several places. But it didn’t matter. Slash, turn, slash, step, repeat. This was a dance he knew well enough.

However, it was a dance he had only ever practiced with small groups of already weakened men. Despite himself, he dropped to his knees, sweat and blood mixing on his face, vaguely aware that at some point, there was the metallic taste of copper in his mouth.

Black curled around the edges of his vision. No. NO! He couldn't. He was so close. His brother! He needed to protect… protect his brother…  _ no no nononono don’t lose consciousness, don’t lose consciousness. You can do this; finished it _ , he told himself, shakily standing while using his katana as a crutch. UGhhh, his arms hurt, his body hurt, his head hurt, his mouth tasted terrible, there was ringing in his ears and everything was blurry but no! He had to do it.

The shaky katana slid on the floor beneath him, and his body fell to the ground with a thump. He groaned, expending all his effort to get up, to urge his aching legs to move, to save his brother! The man in front snickered as he finally lifted his head off the ground.

“These slaves aren’t worth the trouble. Kill them all,” the man instructed, to his all too eager comrades.

The blood of rain was what Inai was first aware of. Then the bloodcurdling scream that he didn’t realize until a few seconds later, was coming out of his mouth. “NOOOOOOOOOO!  _ NO!! SHINTA!! SHINTAAA!! RUN! GET AWAY FROM HERE, HIDE!!!” _

 

Shinta was still in the arms of two of the original women. He saw it all, could see as every single blow was dealt to his silver-haired brother, as every drop spilled splattered onto the ground. His brother was a maelstrom of destruction, wreaking havoc on twice his own size, all on his own. But it was because of that that he knew his brother wouldn’t last very long, and started shaking.

“Shhh, It’s alright, it’s alright,” came a shaky, comforting voice above him. “We’ll be saved, it’ll be fine,” she said, though Shinta could tell she was lying. He didn’t dare point it out, not wanting to part with warmth again. This was the warmth that had left him this winter, though it gave a different feeling. This warmth, unlike Ayako’s soft but firm one, was wavering and meager, but so generous, sharing what it could.

He found a cold hand clasped over his eyes the next second, another patting his hair and rubbing it in soothing motions, front to back, front to back.

“It’s all okay. There’s no need for you to look.”

“But… my brother is fighting.”

“Let him fight,” she said.

Shinta curled in on himself in shame. He couldn’t believe he was once again becoming the dead weight his brother had to carry and protect.

A lighter thud was heard, along with the clattering of a katana. “Inai-nii?!” He shouted in panic. No, his brother was strong, he couldn’t lose, he  _ wouldn’t  _ lose--

The screech came from the women behind him, as he vaguely heard the order coming from the man. Two pairs of arms left him, and his eyes were still covered by the cold, shaking hand. His brother was screaming, what was he screaming? It was inaudible over the voices of the sobbing women begging for mercy, and the battle cries of the men right before the sickening sound of metal through flesh came out.

“Please, no! He’s only a child, please, please spare this child!” begged the one he recalled introduced herself as Akane.

_ Slash _ .

“No! You cruel men! How could you?! Please, let him go, have mercy!!” cried the one named Kasumi.

_ Slash _ .

Sakura shook, sobbing. “No, please…” she whispered. “You’ll be okay, Shinta, you’ll be okay… please… spare this child, sir...”

_ Slash. _

Sakura’s body fell on his own, limp and warm and wet with something red and unmoving.

“Sakura-san? Sakura-san?” he whispered incredulously, as he wiggled out from her embrace, shaking her arm a bit.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” He heard Inai-nii scream at the top of his lungs.

There was a shadow. He turned. Was this what dying was like? Everything moved in slow motion. The silhouette of the man bringing the sword down. The memories flashing in front of his eyes. The way his senses became hazy.

 

The man who was slashing at him crumpled to the ground in a pool of red. What took his place as a foreboding silhouette was an even larger man, with a somber but youthful face, in a large white mantle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiko has appeared! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
> Just as a notice also, updates for this will be pretty sporadic because I have school... But I hope you enjoy the few updates that I do!
> 
> Leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed it please! (^v^)


	4. Their parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiko introduces himself. Shinta becomes Kenshin.

Shinta blinked once. He blinked again. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead?

Wait, what?

This was a bit too much to process.

In front of him stood the largest man he had ever seen, easily towering over him with a height three times his own.

He saved him.

Or was he going to kill him?

No, he’d killed the man who was going to kill him, so he’d saved him.

He barely had time to organize his thoughts anymore when a flurry of white and red approached and drew him into a long, warm embrace. He practically melted in Inai’s arms. (His arms were red. He was covered in blood. Some of it was his own and some of it wasn’t. Shinta mentally cursed. It was his fault his brother was harmed.)

The man in the white mantle stood still, staring at the two of them, as if pondering something. From behind Inai’s dripping white-stained-red hair, Shinta could see him nod.

“The nearest town is just down the road for a few minutes or so. Go there and get yourself treated or something.”

With that, the man turned,  his large white mantle flowing behind him. And he disappeared, into the darkness of the night.

Inai finally drew away from the hug. “Shinta, are you alright?”

Shinta nodded meekly. “I would ask the same of you… but you obviously aren’t.”

Inai smirked, confident as he always was, though his eyes seemed to have trouble staying open. “Of course I am. Don’t worry about it,” he shrugged, putting a rough hand on Inai’s head.

Shinta tried to smile up at his brother, who for all the world, if he didn’t have all that blood on him or all those scratch and dirt marks on his face, would’ve looked as if he were the world’s most content boy, smirking down at his little brother. But he wasn’t. He  _ was  _ covered in blood, he  _ had _ scratch and dirt marks, and he had gotten them by saving Shinta.

It was logical, of course, that it was Shinta’s fault. If he could’ve protected himself, if he could’ve been stronger, if he could’ve busted himself out, or not have gotten kidnapped in the first place. He could’ve saved Akane, Kasumi and Sakura…

It was his fault. He couldn’t protect them. It was his fault.

If he were strong enough, maybe nobody would have to die. Not even those slave traders. While they were bad people, they were still living.

Instead of giving Inai the smile he wanted to, his head dropped lower and his eyes stung. Inai’s hand fell from his head, and he knew that his brother must’ve no longer been smiling. All because of him…

No, now wasn’t the time to mope at his powerlessness.

People had died tonight.

And regardless of whether they deserved it, he would honor their deaths.

Inai watched him as he walked to the side of the shed, where there was conveniently a couple of shovels.

“You want to bury them?” he asked, nonchalantly.

“All of them.” Shinta nodded. His eyes gleamed with something new.

Inai nodded and smiled a bit. His brother was ever the kind soul. He grabbed a shovel and started digging.

\---

It was almost noon the next day and they still weren’t finished. Well who could expect them to be? There were tons of people there, from the girls to the slave traders.

Most of which he had killed.

Whoops.

He looked over at Shinta, who was lightly placing on of the girls’ bodies into a hole.

He could hear when under his breath, Shinta said, “Thank you.”

The girl that had protected him? He would make a prayer there for her everlasting happiness in the afterlife after he was done.

\---

After the graveyard was made, and tombstones or markers were placed, the sun was already hugging the mountains, painting the sky a sinister red-orange. Inai had not yet treated his own wounds, but he was sure that they’d heal soon enough anyways. He hadn’t spent years on battlefields by not being able to endure tiny wounds like this.

Shinta and he stood in front of the 3 best, largest stones they could find and actually carry. Shinta looked down, as Inai clapped and made a quick prayer.

Behind them, they could hear the flapping of a mantle. But why would the man come back?

“You made these graves?” the man asked with a raised eyebrow.

Shinta looked down and nodded quietly.

Inai’s half-lidded eyes rolled a bit. “Shinta’s a bit quiet. Yes, he did.” He was unsure what to think of the man. He seemed callous and rude, but had also protected the two of them. But beyond killing those who were about to kill them, the man had done nothing to assure their safety or health, so what exactly was this man up to, revisiting?

“You come to make sure we didn’t kill ourselves or something?” Inai muttered his thought aloud.

The man smirked. “Insightful child, aren’t you. Yep.”

“You didn’t need to, neither of us would leave the other alone.”

At these words, Shinta looked up at Inai and smiled meekly. The fact that the boy was still able to smile after facing such an adversity was pretty impressive, the man reflected. The silver-haired kid wasn’t bad either, storming into a place full of enemies no doubt overwhelmingly outnumbering himself just to save his kid brother.

Yes, they might make good students. But only one could learn, and inherit the heaven’s justice-bringing sword. To have two in the world would be dangerous, especially when each would go recklessly into battle for the sake of the other.

The silver-haired kid showed promise. Inai, he was called? Awfully sad name; the man could imagine how the child had gotten it.  _ No-name _ . It would easily also explain the child’s brute strength and ease in the art of killing, however rough it was in his tender years.

But no, the heavenly sword required a warm-hearted user that would not use it for just anything, but only the most important things. With the sword, the outcome of battles, wars even, could be determined. It wasn’t much, but the red-haired child had the heart of a swordsman and the discipline needed.

Hiko was getting old anyways, despite his ageless looks. It was high time that he found an heir to his technique.

But first, to pay some respects. He was in a graveyard, after all. There were three pointed stones sitting in the very middle, and by placement and the different grave marker, it was clear that more care went into making those graves. Hiko walked over to the graves, and Inai stepped back behind his brother, Shinta. Close enough to protect, but far enough for Shinta to talk to the man about the women to whom he owed his life. 

The man tilted his head in inquiry. Shinta looked up earnestly at the man’s eyes, his angled and hard gaze making the sheepish boy shrink a bit. “These three were Sakura, Kasumi, and Akane. They protected me.”

As the man thought. He clapped his hands together in quick prayer, and took out his jug of sake, dousing the stones with a substantial amount. The sake splashed off the rocks, glinting orange in the sunset. “The best sake I have on hand with me right now. May they rest in peace.”

Shinta looked back at the gravestones and nodded. If he ever could in the future, he would make proper gravestones, and replace the small jagged boulders. It was all he could do, after all.

The man stepped back, and looked at the two children. He figured now was as good a time as any.

“My name is Hiko Seijuro the 13th, and I am a swordsman. Do you want to learn the ways of the sword?” He asked, looking at the red-haired child.

Shinta’s violet eyes widened. Did he? If he had learned before, none of this would’ve happened. First off, he’d be able to have protected his family when they threw sticks and stones at them, trying to drive them off with their “demon child.” Secondly, he would’ve never gotten kidnapped and would never have gotten Inai-nii hurt.

It was a no-brainer. He was weak. He needed to be stronger. He needed to learn enough to protect the one that meant the most to him.

He would no longer be protected by Inai-nii.

He would protect them both.

In the few seconds it took his mind to run through all of this, his body had already known it. He gave a firm nod.

Inai, behind him, watched as the soft eyes of the boy he had protected hardened with newfound resolve. This was resolve that he could not stop, and he knew when the man --  Hiko, was it? -- was talking that Hiko had only been talking to Shinta. He knew that this man had no intention of taking him under his wing and training him in the ways of the sword like he wanted for Shinta.

But that was fine by him. This man was strong. Shinta would be safe. Hell, Shinta would maybe become stronger than him, grow up kind and never have to hurt again.

And if it was for Shinta’s sake, nothing else mattered. He made up his mind to let Shinta go with Hiko. Hiko would teach him, protect him, raise him like he never could. And it didn’t matter if Shinta would miss him. He was a plague on all life anyways, and maybe that was why Hiko who had saved them both only wanted Shinta.

Both brothers had made their mind. Inai nodded. “Go,” he nudged Shinta’s shoulder. “Become a good swordsman.”

Shinta turned around in alarm. “Wait! But Inai-nii, aren’t you coming with me?”

Inai shook his head, with a smile on his face. It’s for the best. Shinta, go.”

Shinta’s frown became larger. “No! I want you to come with me!”

Inai was starting to get angry. “I said  _ go, _ dammit! I don’t matter! You do! You can become strong, have a home, learn!”

Shinta was in tears at this point. “Then  _ you _ can too! Just come with me! We can learn and live together! Do you hate me? Are you disappointed in me for being a burden and making you put yourself in danger to save me?! I promise I’ll become strong! Just come with me!” He sank to his knees, bawling into his small dirtied gi.

Inai sighed. In a flash, he was no longer standing in front of Shinta, but behind him. The crying child felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck and his eyes closed, a few last tears trailing down his face.

“It’s not like that, idiot. This man won’t take both of us.” Inai turned and caught the falling child in his arms. “But you will be taken care of.” At this, he glared up at Hiko, who was watching this exchange between brother half with concern and half with interest. “Right?” he hissed, as his blood-red eyes narrowed.

The man nodded. “You have my word. His training will be rough, but he will be fine.”

Inai turned his head back to the limp child in his arms, pulling his brother into one final embrace. Even though Shinta couldn’t hear, he knew in his heart that his next words would be true. “Someday, when we are both older and stronger, we’ll find each other again and be together. It’s a promise,” he whispered into the boy’s ear.

He picked Shinta up. He stood, shaking slightly. Oh shit. Now the tears were coming out of his eyes.

He walked over to Hiko. “Please take care of my brother.”

Hiko gently lifted the boy from Inai’s hands. “Shinta, was it? Mind if I change his name to Kenshin? Shinta is a weak name for a swordsman.”

Inai smiled. “Kenshin… sounds fitting. Do what you will. He’ll become strong, right?”

“The strongest.”

Good. That was all Inai needed to know.

“By the way, boy, that was some impressive reasoning. How’d you know I’d only take one?”

Inai rolled his eyes. “You were only looking at Shinta- I mean, Kenshin. If you wanted both of us, we would’ve made eye contact, because I was staring at you the whole time.”

Hiko nodded. Sound enough reasoning. A shame that his little brother won in the personality department, or he would’ve liked to train this kid.

“And besides,” Inai continued. “Who would want to teach their sword techniques to someone as rotten as me? I know you saw me kill the men there without a shred of remorse, and you know that he was the one making all the graves. If it were me, I probably would’ve left them there or even pillaged some materials from them.”

“So what’ll you do now?”

“What I used to.” Inai -- now once again nameless no longer a brother -- turned around and start walking, his katana in his hand and a lifeless smirk crawling onto his lips. “I’ll return to the battlefield and survive.”

Hiko nodded solemnly and turned back to the direction of his own mountain, his new charge in his arms. Still, a shame, but he had no doubt in his mind that that child could and would survive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K so I don't think anyone was waiting for this but in case they were I apologize because school is too much to handle. Please comment and leave Kudos if you enjoyed! I love comments. (^v^)


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